


Interactions

by Jojolightningfingers



Category: Berserk
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8571598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojolightningfingers/pseuds/Jojolightningfingers
Summary: A collection of people all strung together by fate.





	

_I_

 

Guts learned very early on that when Isidro wants something from him, he rarely asks for it directly. Even on the occasions that he does, he opts to couch his demand as the most innocuous of questions, the incorrigible little brat. 'You gotta minute?' is his polite way of saying 'Drop what you're doing and get a stick.' It's endearing in an obnoxiously familiar way, which is probably why Guts humors him most of the time.

This is how it always is when the party makes camp towards morning, when the sun has just begun to rise and scorch away the mists of last night's demons. Everyone has their tasks and Isidro seems to make it a point to complete his as quickly as he can for the opportunity to badger a certain ex-mercenary for another lesson in swordplay. Here he is like clockwork, short sword in hand, planting himself firmly in Guts' line of sight. Or, what would be his line of sight, if he bothered to look up: Guts has his arsenal arrayed before him, checking and honing each one with a veteran's care. He doesn't turn an eye to Isidro—a grunt of “What?” is all the acknowledgment he gets.

Not that that is at all a deterrent to Isidro. There's a crunchy thump of the boy plopping down in the leaves on his blind side not too far away. Guts braces himself for questioning, setting aside Isidro's weight in iron, steel, and gunpowder and hauling the Dragonslayer across his lap to tend to. He's scoured at least a third of the broadsword's edge of dried gore before he gets the thought that it's much too quiet. Guts pauses with a handful of sand, and now he does look at Isidro, who sits crosslegged and uncharacteristically silent, watching him like a hawk. “What?” Guts asks again.

“Don't worry, it can wait. Don't wanna let all that stuff rust.” Isidro meets his eye for a fraction of a second before staring down at the Dragonslayer intently, as if committing every nick and ding to memory. Bemused, Guts resumes his task, scrubbing dirt over the pocked edge.

It takes a considerable amount of time to clean the blade from hilt to point, to sharpen it enough to retain its cutting force. It takes even more time to dismantle his prosthetic and check all the nitpicky little parts for cracks and warping. He doesn't hear a single word from Isidro for the better part of two hours, until he's starting to put everything back together. His fingers are too thick to gracefully handle all the intricacies of the machinery; they fumble, and Isidro stirs at his side.

“Need a hand?” he asks, his tone honey and smarm, and Guts graces him with a witheringly unamused stare. The mouthy shit only grins, self-satisfied. Guts ignores him until he's wrangled the last piece into place and tightened the straps holding it onto his stump. Then and only then does he turn to the boy.

“What?” he asks a third time, restively patient.

Isidro thrusts his sword hilt-first towards Guts. “Would you cut my hair?”

Of everything he'd been expecting to hear, that ranked at the bottom of the (admittedly short) list. Guts' dark brows raise of their own accord. “...Why?” is all he can think to ask, curious in spite of himself.

“'Cuz it's way too long and if it comes loose in a fight it could get in my eyes and I could _die_ , Guts!” he whines, dramatic as ever. “'Sides that it's just really annoying and itchy and hot—”

“I meant, why _me_ ,” Guts interrupts, forestalling further complaining.

Isidro sniffs, pouts, flicks an errant long strand out of his eyes. In the weeks since the last trim, Isidro's hair has grown long enough that he has to pull it back into a short ponytail for convenience, held in place by a length of cord. It comes undone more often than it stays put, causing Isidro to grumble and curse whenever he has to redo it. Making matters worse, the front hasn't grown quite enough to join the back, leaving his face framed by little wavy locks. He looks for all the world like a small, redheaded Rickert, especially when he makes that face.

“No reason,” he mumbles, an obvious lie, but Guts has already lost interest in pressing him for a straight answer. Experience has told him that Isidro has a tendency to buckle down like a dog with a bone when he pouts like that. Trying to derail him is completely futile and Guts has never quite had the heart to turn him down outright. He has no idea why this is so important, but it's better to save himself the sulking and hassle.

So he sighs and says, “Put that away, it's too big to use with one hand,” while pulling one of his throwing knives from the belt across his chest.

Isidro's face lights up. He whips the cord from his hair and shakes it out as he takes a seat in front of Guts. The sunlight catches it at just the right angle to turn it into a wave of blinding bright copper. “You use that monster sword one-handed sometimes,” he points out.

“Cutting demons isn't as finicky.” Guts moves into the shade where the glare isn't as bad, blinking spots from his vision. “Now sit still and don't talk or I might accidentally scalp you.”

“Yes, _dad_ ,” Isidro replies sardonically. It is with great effort that Guts shows no reaction whatsoever. At least, he thinks he doesn't—Isidro's snickering is cause for wonder.

 

_S_

 

The world bronzes over as it marches towards sundown, golden shafts of light illuminate every speck of fog and dust for miles around. Their pack stirs to uneasy wakefulness, bellies empty and bodies sore. In grumbling silence they prepare to break camp and soldier on through the next wave in an unending tide of specters. Rain and rot for days on end have left them all bone-weary and bad-tempered, desperately in need of a real rest.

Serpico has either missed that memo or opted to ignore it completely, in favor of serenely cheerful ambivalence that never fails to put Guts on guard around him.

For the most part, Guts knows why these individuals have chosen to gather around him. Isidro seeks strength, Farnese seeks the truth, and Schierke had nowhere else to go. To say that he has no idea what Serpico seeks would be inaccurate, but his goal seems to change from day to day, with no indication as to why. Gleaning from his emotions is useless—he shows only those he wants to, leaving the rest locked up. Guts has never met a man who confuses him as Serpico does.

Dusk has just come on when Serpico approaches, naked sword in hand, and says simply, “I want to spar with you.”

“There are easier ways to try and kill me,” he answers, instinctively attuning himself to every motion. That rapier Serpico carries may not look too imposing, but Guts is well aware of what he can do with it. He has no doubt that if Serpico's whims dictate that Guts should die, and he senses even the slightest opening, Serpico is skilled enough to slip that blade between his ribs and skewer his heart, easy as breathing. “You could always cut my throat while I sleep.”

“ _Do_ you sleep?” Serpico counters, his head cocked slightly in query. “I honestly can't recall ever seeing you asleep. Knocked senseless, yes, but never asleep. In any case,” he continues, abruptly changing tack, “I'm not after your life right now. I want to cross swords.” He flicks the rapier's point a fraction of an inch, the tiniest motion of his wrist. “That is why I asked to _spar_ , not to _duel_.”

He gives it a moment of consideration that he doesn't need. “Wouldn't be much of a fight. I don't have a sword that won't blow you in half if I don't check my swing in time. And there's no rock wall to stop me from drawing on you either.”

“I'm insulted that you think I need the handicap,” Serpico says, smiling a smile of amused condescension. “And surprised that you think _you_ need the handicap too.” Before Guts can process the backhanded insult, Serpico continues, “I suppose that if you're really worried about it... perhaps you could use your arm?”

Still nettled from the jab, Guts' answer comes out curt and flat. “My arm has a cannon in it.”

Serpico's grin only widens. “I don't see how that stops you from swinging it around. You can even take the shot out so it doesn't accidentally go off.”

Some days Guts wonders if Serpico enjoys winding him up on purpose. “You'd be fine with me using my off hand? I thought you didn't need the handicap.”

Serpico makes a thin pensive 'hmm', fair gold eyebrows raising. “Well, you could always take the arm off and wield it like a sword,” he says. “Maybe if you held it by the fingers?”

The idea brings to mind the first time he met Nosferatu Zodd, but the image of himself doing the same thing is so patently absurd that he smirks. Then chuckles. Then, amazingly, he starts to laugh, low and quiet, barely hard enough to shake his shoulders. It passes almost as soon as it begins, but he's still grinning when he says, “I don't think I've seen you itch for a fight this badly before.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” Serpico answers, face carefully blank except for the ever-present smile. “I'm merely concerned that, what with all the monsters we've been fighting, I'll lose my edge against humans. How pathetic would you feel if you survived those many thousands of demons only to meet your end at the hands of some raw recruit?”

“I doubt I'd feel anything, seeing as I'd be dead.” As far as Serpico's deflections went, that one was surprisingly transparent. Guts wonders if he'd touched a nerve.

“Hm.” That little sound is all the warning Guts gets before Serpico lunges, stabbing at a gap in the armor on his thigh. Guts jumps back from the strike and reaches for the Dragonslayer, turning that side away so Serpico can't interrupt his draw. Serpico must realize that—his element of surprise is lost so he quits while he's ahead. He straightens up and slides his rapier back into its sheathe with a clean, polished motion, heaving a sigh. “Oh well, it was worth a try.” Then he turns away and gathers up his bedroll as if nothing had happened, nudging the still-dozing Isidro in the process.

Guts stares after him, dropping his hand from the Dragonslayer and chuckling to himself one more time—the first genuine amusement he's felt in a very long time. As always, he's not sure what to make of the exchange. He is, however, certain that Serpico isn't at all concerned about losing his edge against men. If he was, he wouldn't have come to Guts.

 

_F_

 

Consciousness is a long time in returning. Every breath he takes is broken glass and rusted knives stabbing into his lungs. Every cut is afire with the sting of salt and blood. He feels bruised all the way down to his bones—he's amazed that none of them seem broken. Guts may have survived worse but that doesn't alleviate the pain or cold. Neither does the sea rocking the boat up and down, jostling him thoughtlessly this way and that.

The door to the cabin he assumes he's in creaks open and Guts opens his good eye laboriously to see who his visitor is. All he can make out is a tall, animate smudge, clumsily illuminated by the swaying lantern. Fear clutches at him without warning, spearing his heart with ice. He starts from the bed, forgetting in his panic that they must have removed his prosthetic to get him into bed. His left side thus unsupported, he's left off-balance and falls back into the sheets.

“Guts!” Something heavy hits the cabin floor with a wood-on-wood clatter, closely followed by a cool hand touching his shoulder. That's Farnese's voice. “Guts, what's wrong?” Guts blinks several times and the smudge finally resolves into their zealot-turned-witch, who stares down at him with a terribly worried expression. His alarm fades, and with it, the adrenaline that numbed his pain. A fresh tide of agony sweeps over him and he groans involuntarily. Farnese pushes on his shoulder when he tries to rise again and he stops resisting. His head swims, his punishment for moving so suddenly.

“You shouldn't even be awake right now,” she says, fretful. She bends down to bring the wooden bucket she'd dropped closer to his bedside. “Schierke thought you would be unconscious for a long time still...”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he manages with grim humor. His voice is even rougher than it normally is, and aches coming out.

The smile she answers with is just as forced as his joke, fraught with concern. She does not tell him, “We're glad you made it,” or other such sentiments, only sits on a stool beside his bed and reaches down for a washcloth. “Schierke already repaired all the damage to your bones and organs, and the elves healed most of the smaller flesh wounds, but it drained them considerably.” He can't see her unless he turns his head. All he hears is the bubbling of water as she wrings the wet cloth into the bucket. She must sense the question lingering in the air, because she adds, “They're tired, but unhurt. They'll recover with sleep.”

At that he lets out an acknowledging hum, then turns his face away. She's taking an awfully long time with that cloth, stalling for something. Silence hangs uncomfortably until she helps him to sit upright, which is its own special kind of torture. Fresh, tenuous scabs pull and tear, wounds reopen under his shirt of bandages. Bright red blotches bloom over old brown stains. The mottled pattern recalls images of late autumn leaves, a stone landing in a castle a lifetime away. When Farnese reaches behind him to unknot the bandages, Guts notices her fingers shaking, the dark circles bruised under her eyes. Without thinking about it, he asks, “What about you?”

She fumbles, though he's not sure if it's in exhaustion or reaction. “What—?”

“You were on the deck holding the shield, right? Can't have been easy.”

“I... I'm fine,” she replies, without conviction. There's a substantial pause before she shakes off whatever thoughts have gripped her and returns to her task. She finishes unwrapping his body, wipes the congealed gore from his skin. “Lie back down, please,” she bids him, rolling her sleeves to her elbows in preparation to call upon her magic.

He does not. “You shouldn't,” he tells her. He knows little of the intricacies of magic, but instinct tells him that attempting it while tired is not a smart idea. “You're dead on your feet.” As if he can talk.

“I'm not as tired as you think. I can do this,” she insists, and she may even believe it. Despite the stubborn sheen in her eyes, he doesn't.

“Maybe, but you shouldn't,” he repeats. “You know Schierke's told you that magic is dangerous. Slip up and you could sink this whole ship.” It isn't—or, it wasn't—like him to lecture. It's becoming more common by the day.

Chagrined, Farnese presses her lips together in a thin line. Her fingers curl at her sides. “What about your injuries, then?”

“Do 'em the old-fashioned way. Sticking me with a needle will probably hurt me less than accidentally being struck by lightning or something. Sew me up and change the bandages, then go get some sleep.”

He sees her struggling with an argument—her eyes flicker with uncertainty and her lips move as though she's preparing to speak. Eventually, she sighs in defeat. “Right,” she answers, and takes the bucket with her when she leaves.

The simple fact of a needle in his flesh still sets his teeth on edge, but Farnese treats him delicately, each stitch carefully spaced and precise. He catches himself wondering if she used to do needlepoint when she lived in the Vandimion house. How different it is from the quick, tight stitches from years ago. Farnese is silent in the place of a strident, take-no-nonsense voice telling him to suck it up and stop complaining. His body's aches might not all be from the multitude of new holes she's putting in him.

Perhaps her training in magic has made her more sensitive to thoughts and moods—she asks, “Why do you go so far for her?”

He stiffens, but knows better than to pull away while she has a needle stuck in him. Catgut thread hurt when it's pulled too tight. Her hands have paused on his chest, white fingers framing a ragged gash, half-sealed. Her eyes are aimed down at it, away from his face.

It isn't for her to ask that, even in jealousy or the want that keeps her touching him. He rebuffs the question with a non-answer. “It's not something you should worry about.”

“No—it's not about her.” Surprised, Guts glances down at her. “Don't you care about what happens to yourself?” Her fingernails prick tiny crescents in the fabric of his skin.

He doesn't answer. He can't answer it with the truth and he knows for a fact she'll sense if he's lying. Unfortunately, his silence is implication enough. Her posture slumps but she carries bravely on, closing each wound with care. They don't speak again, not even when she ties the final knot and binds him up again, then leaves to lick her own wounds, taking the refuse with her. He offers no apology, and he's not sure she would accept it anyway.

 

_C_

 

Every turning point in his life, it seems, has been marked by fire, metaphorical or literal. Fire has been his ever-present companion from the day the tent went up in flames around him, making his father's blood glow ruby-red on his fingers. It has dogged him across years of battlefields, from the Hawks' camp to the measured flare of Gotoh's forge under the bellows' breath.

The fires she lit in him—in his chest, in his belly—are no different. Neither is the fire carved and seeded into the side of his neck, or the fire that burned its way into his lungs and scorches his heart black from the inside out.

If the beast inside him had its way, he would raze the whole world down to match his pain. If not for her, he would long ago have ended up in some demon's belly, having bitten off more than he could chew—unremembered by all but the inhumans. Even then, it's such an imperfect restraint. The one time the beast broke free will haunt him until his dying day.

She'd said, “I too want a wound that I can say you gave me,” and the beast had been more than willing to oblige.

 

_S_

 

He goes to his knees in the red stream, breath short and tortured with panic. Newly severed stump and newly gouged eye both ache, contributing to the hue of the river. They are here somewhere, if only he can find them.

The sun is going down. He paws feverishly at the rusty waters. Be quick. They're coming. They'll take the rest. The muggy air smells like a battlefield—iron and death. He recognizes a few of the tangled corpses choking the sanguine flow, sightless and rotten. His fingers run into a sword, half-buried in the blood-soft bed—he grips the blade without meaning to, slices his palm open on it as he'd done once before. Whispers gather close to him, the ill breath of breeze too intimate and too cold.

“Guts.” The voice is a girl's.

Wounds open everywhere on his skin, seamless slits that have no origin. Things flock to them, flock to him—they cling to him where they touch him in the river, they climb the length of his limbs and swarm across his body. Dozens, hundreds of icy tongues probe each gash, nursing for their milk. He has to ignore them, no matter how his stomach heaves at the sensation, bile rising in his throat. The sun is going down, he hasn't much time.

He can't. He reels back from his search with a howl, clawing his skin. His fingers pass right through the abominations. The instant he makes contact, the empty socket of his eye bursts into pain—a pain so invasive and intimate that he screams and keeps on screaming as he reaches for it.

His touch encounters the smooth surface of a behelit, a red one, with its own eye turned outwards in grotesque imitation of life.

“Guts, wake up.”

It weeps crimson down his cheek. It sees shadows on the horizon. The sun is going down.

No, not going down. Turning black. The parasites haul him under the surface, his lungs fill with blood. A pair of leathery black hands reach for him. One of them cups his jaw as tenderly as a lover. The other hooks its claws behind his eyelid and prizes the egg from his skull, cold and unfeeling, and leaves him to drown.

“Guts!”

He jolts awake with an involuntary cry, lashing out at what has woken him. The intruder is quick enough to duck the first time, but not the second. At the last possible instant, Guts recognizes Schierke and stops his fist, mere inches from striking her. He freezes. She flinches. Her face is a tangle of fear and worry and sorrow. His breath is overloud in the tiny cabin.

“You were shaking in your sleep,” she explains quietly as he lowers his fist. “I was worried it was a demon.” He hasn't hidden his right eye; it's still open. Her fearful gaze is fixed on the open void where it used to be.

Saying nothing, he covers his face with his hand, letting out a shaky breath. His mind is consumed with images of icy red eyes. There are no demons this far out to sea, save the ones in his past and in his head.

“I'm sorry,” she says suddenly, causing him to glance over. She wears a guilty expression that tells him exactly why. “If you want to talk about it, I'll be here.” She wrings her staff unconsciously in her hands and turns to go, subdued.

He's still silent when she leaves, but his chest is warm in wordless thanks, and he does not dream for the remainder of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> How do you write Guts ://///


End file.
